Tag Archives: love

My two beautiful children (animated gif below). Rescued together from a shelter (see “About Me & My Dogs” in the top menu). He was about 3-4 months old, her age unsure – estimating around 4 yrs old at the time of adoption in 2007.

I, very affectionately, call the son “Dork”… because he’s a dork. Very happy-go-lucky. Born completely deaf, and blind in his left eye, he will occasionally run into something, then give it a look as in “whatever” and go on his merry way.

Sadly, though, I have come to realize by his actions that he is now starting to lose vision in his one good eye. This is not abnormal for “lethal whites” with his eye defects. It appears as though he is now seeing shadows in the upper part of his field of vision as he is constantly looking up and flinching, both inside and outside. At first I thought a branch may have hit him, or a bird attacked him, as he was only doing this outside. But now the frequency and reaction has grown, and he is behaving this way inside. Just the other day, he stood up on his hind legs with his forepaws on the wall (as though he was trying to climb the wall), looking up and attempting to reach whatever he was seeing up at the ceiling. He now displays fear when going outside and rarely goes beyond five feet from the back of the house – unless I am with him. He has changed his toilet area from the very back of the yard, to a spot off to the corner of the house – out of the way – but within a close proximity to the house itself. When inside, he rarely leaves my side now. He usually likes to lay on the cool linoleum floor in the kitchen, but now crawls under my legs under the desk.

For the first time in his life, he feels fear. And it is breaking my heart I cannot explain to him what is occurring.

‘Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!‘ My father yelled at me. ‘Can’t you do anything right?‘ Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle.

Dad glared at me, then, turned away and settled back. At home, I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.

What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn’t lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day, I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age or when he couldn’t do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.

But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned and then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon, I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day, I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, ‘I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.’ I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one, but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen, a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.